


Love Always Does

by ChiefDoctor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21721801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiefDoctor/pseuds/ChiefDoctor
Summary: After Sherrinford, Sherlock lied about his true feelings for Molly.  He loved her too much to have her be a target in his world, or worse he break her with his carelessness.  So he gave her up and encouraged her to have the life she deserved.  She left London in search of that life.  It didn't turn out as either of them had hoped.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	Love Always Does

**Author's Note:**

> Recently my sister passed away. I had been trying to work through the myriad of emotions that had caused. This was my attempt to work through it. It's taken me until now to be brave enough to post it. I’m sorry but this is going to hurt, as love always does.

**Love Always Does**

He’d been at the window when the cab stopped, and John Watson got out. From the way he carried himself, Sherlock knew something was wrong. Preparing himself, he put his violin back in the case and turned to the door waiting.

He could hear his muffled sounds in the stairwell as if every one of the seventeen steps were an effort. He braced himself for this could not be good news. When John opened his door, he was further distressed as he had not seen such loss on his face since that awful night at the aquarium.

Taking a few steps towards him, he asked, “John, what’s wrong?”

John stopped, trying to get himself in control of his emotions, his eyes red from crying. There weren’t many left in his life that would cause such a reaction. ‘No!’

“Rosie?” Gently, he prompted.

John shook his head, took in a large breath before uttering, “Molly.”

His head began to swim, and his legs gave out, crashing him into the floor. He couldn’t breathe, his chest was pressing against his lungs. 

“Sherlock!” John shouted before kneeling on the rug in front of him.

But he couldn’t answer, he had no breathe. His mind began to whirl trying to convince himself that he was over reacting, that Molly was fine. He’d let her go so she could have a beautiful life; she had to be fine. 

“Sherlock?” He heard his friend through the fog of his thoughts, and numbly reached out to him, grabbing hold of his arm to tether him to the earth. Pulling him closer, he gave him a piercing look beseeching him to tell him what has happened.

“Sherlock,” His voice wavered as he spoke. “Molly’s gone.”

“Gone? Of course, she’s gone. She’s in Edinburgh.” He tried to make things make sense, even if deep in his gut he knew that they wouldn’t.

John was shaking his head as he said. “I’m sorry Sherlock. She passed away this morning.” He fell back on the carpet when Sherlock unexpectantly let go of his arm.

“NO! No! That’s not right. She’s fine. She’s in Edinburgh, having a wonderful life.” He begged John to agree with him. But John only gave him a sad look and shook his head.

They sat there for so very long. John was beginning to lose the feeling in his legs. Wiping his eyes, he pushed himself off the floor trying to determine how his friend was doing. He hadn’t moved. He could only assume he was in his mind palace, trying to determine how to process this.

With no other ideas of what to do, he went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. The British answer to everything. As he gathered the items to make tea, he kept looking over his shoulder, checking on Sherlock. He still hadn’t moved.

After bringing in their teas and sitting them on their side tables, he approached him. “Sherlock?” He called quietly. Finally, after the third time, Sherlock looked up at him. He was wrecked. Tears marred his face, his eyes distant, rimmed by red, he looked like he was having a hard time catching his breath. John reached down to him, offering his hand.

Sherlock grabbed onto it, as if a lifeline. “Soldiers?” He assumed.

“No, not today.” John spoke as he indicated his chair, offering him the tea when he sat.

The tea was half gone before he spoke.

“Tell me.” The voice that spoke sounded raw, full of emotions he had no idea how to express.

John placed his tea mug on his side table, he leaned forward facing Sherlock. “She had cancer, Sherlock. Pancreatic.”

“Like her father.” He whispered.

John nodded. “By the time she found out it was quite advanced, stage 4. There wasn’t much she could do. She was in her second round of treatments, when her body just shut down.”

“You knew?” He accused giving him an imperious glare.

John shook his head no. “No, I only found out this morning when I found out she passed.”

“Who?”

John gave him a confused look. “Who what?”

“Who told you?” His voice tight, hating to repeat himself.

“Mycroft.”

“Of course.” He snarled, turning in his chair, pulling up his legs looking so much like a child. 

When after a half hour, Sherlock would not answer him and it seemed apparent he was hiding in his mind palace, John decided to leave. He wanted to get Rosie from the creche. He needed to feel her tiny arms around him, helping him through the loss of another mother figure in her life. It wasn’t fair. Someone as sweet as Molly to have had to go through that, and from what Mycroft said, alone. He shook his head back and forth trying to understand why she had to go it alone, why she had to leave London where she had friends that were more like family. Taking one last look in Sherlock’s direction, he knew. He knew why she couldn’t stay here any longer and it broke his heart further.

His feet felt heavy as he made his way down the staircase. Stopping at the bottom, he held onto the newel post gathering his strength for the next bit. Dragging his feet, he made his way to Mrs. Hudson’s door. Immediately she knew something was wrong but even she couldn’t have guessed that someone as young and strong as Molly could be gone from this earth. 

He let her fuss making tea but couldn’t bring himself to drink it. He just stared at the pattern in her tablecloth, letting her prattle on about how sweet Molly was. Before he left, he warned her about Sherlock. He let her know that he wasn’t sure how he was going to react but that it was certainly a danger night. She understood and promised to keep alert. Kissing her on her cheek, he left to pick up Rosie.

In the cab, on the way he texted Mycroft to let him know he had been informed and that he was worried. When Mycroft responded with a thank you, he wondered if he needed to worry about Mycroft too.

**~~~~~~**

About an hour later, a large black government vehicle stopped in front of Baker Street. The man who got out resembled Mycroft Holmes, but there was no sign of superiority or even control. It seems Doctor Hooper’s death has affected more than one Holmes brother.

He knocked and waited for Mrs. Hudson. Whereas normally he would shut her prattling down so he could move on to his brother, he indulged her. Whether it was to comfort her, or to avoid what waited for him up those stairs, he wasn’t sure. Finally, however he had to get to the business at hand. “Mrs. Hudson, I should attend to my brother. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, just….well, try not to be…” She seemed at a loss for words.

“Myself?” He offered.

“Well……..yes.” She decided in the end to agree with him.

“I promise you; I will try my best.” His eyes were soft, and she was surprised by the level of concern in them.

“See that you do.” She added as he made his way to the stairs.

**~~~~~~~**

He took his time up the stairs, dreading what he knew laid on the other side of the door of 221B. Opening the door, he found Sherlock in his chair, curled into a ball. Quietly he hung his umbrella on the peg by the door, followed by his coat. He slid out of his suit jacket, laying it over the edge of the sofa. Then he removed his cuff links, dropping them in his trouser pocket, and folded up his sleeves.

Coming nearer to Sherlock, he took in the fetal position that he had put himself in, protecting himself from the world. He couldn’t blame him right now. If he could, he might do the same. But he was the big brother, his protector, the one who was supposed to make sure things like today never happened to him. But even he cannot stave off death.

He picked up John’s empty tea mug, taking it to the sink in the kitchen. He refilled the kettle and put it on to boil. Waiting there he remembered the last breaths of Molly Hooper. The whistle of the kettle brought him back from Edinburgh and he finished making his tea. Carefully, he took it into the lounge never taking his eyes off of Sherlock. 

He only got one sip of tea before Sherlock sprung from his seat and hovered menacingly over him where he sat in John’s chair. “You…….you were supposed to protect her Mycroft, watch over her. How could you let this happen?”

Deliberately he placed his tea mug on the side table before answering him. “Sherlock, even I cannot prevent cancer.”

Invading his brother’s personal space further, he hissed, “But you were supposed to protect her.” He faltered as he fell back into his own chair, “You promised.” He was barely audible.

Mycroft leaned towards him. “Yes, I did Sherlock. I did everything I could for her, but it just wasn’t enough.”

“How long?”

“How long what?” He asked in clarification.

Sherlock knew that he understood the question but was stalling for time. “How long have you known?” He barked.

“Three months.” He answered.

“Why? Why didn’t you tell me?” He pleaded.

“Because she made me promise not to.” He took no delight in twisting this knife further into his brother’s heart. The contorted emotions on Sherlock’s face confirmed that this did indeed hurt him further.

Mycroft tried to find words that would comfort him. “She wasn’t in much pain. I made sure of that. I stayed with her till the end. I did not want her to be alone at the end.”

Sherlock turned a sharp glare at him. “It should have been me.”

“Yes, I believe it should have been, but I wasn’t going to go against the wishes of a dying woman.”

When Sherlock looked at him this time, he looked devastated. “I loved her Myc.” 

“I know.” He stated quietly, as he took another sip of his tea. He sat there watching his brother for the next several hours while Sherlock tried to grasp that the woman he loved was no longer alive.

He remembers back to that awful day at Sherringford, when he heard his brother declare his love for his pathologist. He knew then it was genuine. If he had any doubts, the destruction of her coffin was evidence enough. He had been preparing himself for his brother entering into a romantic relationship with Doctor Hooper, perhaps even marriage. He was just as surprised as John when that did not happen.

***

After the third text from Anthea, he rises taking his cup to the kitchen. Quietly he returns his cuffs to his wrists, replaces his cuff links. He gathers his jacket from the sofa, sliding his arms through feeling the security of his armor once more. When he is encased in his outer coat and has his umbrella secure in his hand, he faces Sherlock again. He hasn’t seemed to notice that Mycroft is leaving. He decides to leave him to his grief. There is much for him yet to do.

Before he leaves Baker Street, he gives Mrs. Hudson an update and asks her to let him know if his brother needs him. Usually when he asks her to let him know about his brother, she tells him to piss off but this time she agrees. He wonders if she too knew how much his brother cared for Doctor Hooper. 

**~~~~~~**

Nearly three hours had passed before she heard any movement above her. It came in the form of items being thrown and things breaking. She crept up the stairs, hoping he hadn’t started on the drugs again. As she peeked inside 221B, she could see Sherlock destroying his flat, turning furniture over in a rage, tossing books, smashing teacups. But when he realized that he had Billy, his skull in his hand about to smash it against the hearth, he faltered. Staring at it, he began to weep. He pressed it against his chest, his legs folded beneath him, while he rocked back and forth in utter pain.

When she brought her arms around him from behind, he could not push her away. He needed someone to love his unworthy self so badly that he could not rebuff Mrs. Hudson’s motherly coddling. He’s not sure how long he let her hold him, shush him, trying to convince him it would be alright. He was certain that nothing would ever be right again.

As his sobs turned softer, she moved to sit beside him, still holding him in her arms. It was still longer before he spoke, holding Billy away from his chest he shows it to Mrs. Hudson. “This was the first present she ever gave me.” She can tell how surprised and honored he was that she gave him anything.

“Oh, I always wondered where that came from. I never liked to touch it when I cleaned.”

A smirk formed on his lips. He knew that, it’s why he hid his cigarettes inside. “She’d been cleaning out an old storage cupboard when she found him. He’s real so we couldn’t figure out how he ended up there. She thought I’d appreciate it, she said.” He admired his gift from Molly, seeing Billy as he had seen him when Molly first gave him to him. This wasn’t like body parts that he’d begged or cajoled her into getting for him. She just showed up to his flat one day and gave it to him. He’ll never forget that glorious smile on her face, knowing how much he’d appreciate it. He placed it on the mantle where it has always stayed. It wasn’t until weeks later, when he was having a difficult case, long before John was his flatmate that he began to talk to Billy. He found it helped his thinking process to speak through his thoughts, and Billy proved to be an apt listener. And he almost destroyed the first gift she ever gave him. Just as he had destroyed her.

“It’s my fault.” He uttered as he tried to brush the tears from his cheeks.

“Nonsense Sherlock. You’re many things but even you can’t cause cancer!” He gave her that look he usually gave Molly when she made her awful jokes. 

“But if I hadn’t pushed her away, she would have been here. Maybe we would have caught it sooner.”

“Perhaps, but you don’t know that. The result may have been the same.”

“But she wouldn’t have been alone.” He leaned into her, needing her comfort more than he would ever admit.

“Why did you push her away Sherlock? It’s so obvious how much you loved her.” She asked gently, always wondering why they hadn’t gotten together.

He sat Billy on the floor and hung his head. “Because I’m an idiot, Mrs. Hudson. I thought she’d be better off without me, safer. I thought she could have the life I know she wanted, marriage, children. I could never have given her that. She would have never been happy with me.”

She pulled him tighter in her arms. “Oh Sherlock! You sacrificed yourself for her. Surely you know that’s not what she would have wanted?”

He nodded. “But you did it anyways?”

He nodded again. “After what Eurus put her through, what she threatened to do to her; I couldn’t take the chance that Eurus, or some other criminal would hurt her. I had to keep her safe.”

“She didn’t want safe, my boy, she wanted you.” Briefly he looked at her and nodded in agreement. Deep down he knew that she would have picked him over her safety. It was why he never gave her the choice.

Soon her hip was starting to object to sitting on the hard floor for so long. “How about some tea my dear?” She asked as a way to move them away from this sadness. He nodded. She struggled to get back up, her hip haven gone stiff in that odd position. “Eh, Sherlock? I might need a little help.” She asked ever so meekly. Mrs. Hudson was strong as an ox and as proud as a peacock. It pained her to ask for help, even moreso than Sherlock admitting he had a heart. When he helped her get up, he insisted that she sit in the comfortable chair while he got them tea. 

While waiting for the kettle, he surveyed the destructive mess he had created in his anger. There wasn’t one area of the lounge that had been spared his wrath. When Mrs. Hudson looked like she was going to start to clean up his mess, he shouted, “Leave it! It’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.” She gave him an understanding look and sat back down.

For the next hour, they sat in near silence as they drank their tea and just thought about Molly. Well, he was thinking about Molly; he couldn’t be sure of what Mrs. Hudson was thinking of. He was remembering how he enjoyed when they worked together in the lab. He especially liked when it was just him and her, working on one of his experiments. It was different than when there was the adrenaline and deadline of a case. He just enjoyed their time together, how well they complimented each other.

After Mrs. Hudson left for her flat, he took to the task of putting his own flat back together. It was mind numbing dull work, and it was just what he needed. It kept his thoughts at bay, and he was able to control the sadness. Finally finished he plopped in his chair and let his eyes turn to Billy sitting there on his mantle.

That, of course, started him thinking about Molly again. There were so many questions he didn’t have the answers to. But he knew who did. Taking out his phone he typed:

Come -SH

Now -SH

And after another moment.

Please -SH

Of course -MH

It seemed as if no time had passed when he heard his brother’s gait coming up the stairs. ‘Had he been waiting outside the building?’ He had to wonder.

When his brother looked at him, he could see he was no longer fueled by anger but consumed by grief. He hung up his umbrella and outer coat. When he came to stand by him, Sherlock could see he carried a tall case with him. Mycroft set it on the side table nearest John’s chair, then sat down taking in Sherlock’s appearance. “How are you doing?” He decided to ask instead of just relying on his deductions.

“I’m….I’m not so angry. It just hurts.” He was reaching out to Mycroft, his brother. He needed his brother tonight, his protector, not his rival.

“Of course.” Mycroft nodded. Sentiment was so far outside of Mycroft’s wheelhouse. He didn’t know what to do with his own surprising feelings regarding the passing of Molly Hooper. He wasn’t sure how much comfort he could be to his brother, but his brother had asked for him, so he would do his best.

He turned to the tall leather covered case and opened it. Inside, Sherlock could see two tumblers and a bottle of amber liquid. He knew it was Mycroft’s private stock and him sharing it with him was his way of offering peace. With the drinks poured, he handed a glass to Sherlock. They both held it in their hands for several moments, deep in thought before Mycroft lifted his in the air. He waited until Sherlock joined him then said, “To Molly.”

“Molly.” Sherlock repeated. They each took a drink, letting the alcohol burn down their throat. 

After a few minutes of quiet, Sherlock took a deep breath to start the conversation. “What happened Mycroft? How did this happen? She was going to Edinburgh to start a new life. She was supposed to be happy.” Racing through his mind he heard the words, ‘ _without me’_.

“I did as you asked Sherlock. I got her set up at the University in Edinburgh. She was teaching pathology and was the consulting pathologist for the police there. Whenever I checked in with her, she always assured me that she was fine and that she was making a life there.”

“It was her security protocol that alerted me that she was visiting the Royal Edinburgh Hospital more frequently than seemed necessary for her work. We looked into it further and found that she had been having a series of diagnostic tests run on herself. When we were sure of the diagnosis, I went to see her. I offered to bring her back to London where she could be closer to friends.” He gave Sherlock a meaningful look. “She refused saying that the Royal Edinburgh was a fine hospital and that she could get her treatments there.”

Sherlock began to squirm, getting uncomfortable with the answers he was receiving. He knew he wasn’t going to like the answers but living with them might prove more difficult than not knowing.

“After a month, it became obvious, at least to me, that the treatments weren’t working. When I spoke with her doctors, they were not optimistic. Again, I offered to bring her to London. She refused. I asked her to let me tell you so that you could come to Scotland. She refused, reminding me that I promised not to tell you. I didn’t agree with her decision, but I had no choice but to honor it.” He took another sip from his tumbler carefully gaging how his brother is doing with all this.

“Was she in pain?” He knew she was; pancreatic cancer did not let you go gently into the night.

Mycroft brushed his hand over his face before resting it under his jaw. “The doctors did everything they could to keep her comfortable. I spent the last three days at her bedside.” He gave his brother a meaningful look. “Yes, it should have been you. I think we would have all preferred it, but I knew you would not have wanted her to be alone.”

His arms were wrapped tightly around himself. He swallowed hard knowing his brother did what he could not. As much as he wanted to fault his brother for that; he knew he had no one to blame but himself. He had distanced himself from Molly. He had told her he didn’t love her in the way she needed him to. He had encouraged her to take the Edinburgh position, to have the life she deserved, without him. She didn’t want him there at the end because she believed his lie, that he didn’t really love her, that he wasn’t in love with her. That may be the hardest part for him to stomach. He let her go to her grave believing she wasn’t the most important person in his life. That was unforgiveable.

“I need to see her. Where is she?”

Mycroft gave him a nod. “I thought that might be the case. I had her brought to London. Her wishes were that she be cremated but I’ve held them off for now.”

“Where?”

“Bart’s, it seemed only fitting.” Sherlock nodded in agreement. He emptied his glass, placing it on his side table then sprinted to his bedroom.

He cast off the dressing gown and the clothes he had worn all day. Molly deserved his best. He pulled out her favorite shirt from his wardrobe, the aubergine one. He’d always noted how her eyes twinkled when he walked into a room with it on. He paired that with his black suit. 

When he came back into the sitting room, Mycroft was at the ready by the door. Silently they made their way down the stairs but before heading out the door, Sherlock stopped to let Mrs. Hudson know where he was going. He knew she worried, and he didn’t want to add to her burden.

**~~~~~~**

Walking down the corridors to the morgue, seemed wrong. They didn’t feel like the familiar halls that he was used to. They weren’t taking him to adventure, to a case, to get a glimpse of his Molly. He was here to say goodbye. When that thought hit him, he stopped, bent over holding himself from falling by resting his hands on his knees. It hit him with such force. This was it. The last time. Goodbye.

Through his Belstaff, he felt Mycroft’s hand rest on his back, giving him the strength to keep going. He stood up, and without giving his brother a glance, continued on. He pushed the doors open, as he always did but stopped immediately, not sure what to do next. He scanned the room looking for his pathologist, trying to catch a glimpse of her ponytail swishing by but she was no where.

Mycroft continued onto Mike Stamford’s office to let him know Sherlock was here to see Molly.

Mike came out of his office, over to Sherlock. He looked like hell, to be honest. He put his hand out to Sherlock, “I’m sorry for your loss, Sherlock.”

He shook it, keeping eye contact, “And I am sorry for yours as well.” As he understood that the loss of Molly Hooper wasn’t just his alone. Stamford had taken a fatherly role in her life, to guide her as a mentor, and to remind her to take care of herself. It was obvious to Sherlock, that he felt he had let her down by not noticing she had been ill. Perhaps he would have; had he not convinced her to leave her post. ‘My fault Stamford, not yours.’

Mycroft stayed behind while Mike took him to where she was lying on a metal slab. His steps faltered as he came closer. How many times had he been in this room? How many corpses had he examined? But this was not a corpse, this was his Molly.

Mike seemed to know that he needed privacy for this and left him without turning down the sheet that covered her. Slowly, he brought himself beside her. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself to see her again. Carefully he pulled back the sheet, folding it over to keep her modesty. His eyes burned to see her lying there, so cold, so lifeless. 

His fingers trembled as he brought them to her cheek to feel her skin against his own. “Molly.” He breathed; his own cheeks already wet. Up until this very moment he held out hope that it had been a lie, that she was still alive. His chest got tighter as it tried to hold his heart from breaking into a million pieces. His eyes followed the path of his finger as it took in every part of her face. 

Looking at her here, at her end, he felt the idiocy of his decision. He’d kept her away from him, so she’d be safe, so she’d have the life she always wanted. But he knew, as he probably always had, that the only life she had ever wanted was with him.

“I’m so sorry Molly.” His voice raw, barely audible. “thought I was doing the right thing, that it would be better for you to be far from me.” He paused to swallow hard. “Molly, I never wanted you to go, please know that. I wanted you with me always, tucked up in Baker Street, doing experiments,….making love…” He closed his eyes hard, trying to will the images of her and him alone in his bed from his mind. 

He ran his fingers through her hair, it was thinner than it had been probably due to the treatments. He scrunched his eyes tight, trying not to think of all she had gone through these past months without him. He needed to get through this. He needed to say his good-bye but not before he said something else. “Molly….you probably already know this. You could always see me. It must have made it harder when I pushed you away, knowing that I was too much of a coward to be honest with you …..and myself.” He cupped her face as he spoke to her, “I love you Molly. I truly do.” 

The force of that emotion nearly topped him, so he rested his forehead against hers. It was hard to speak anymore, trying to get around the mountain of regret. His tears slid down her face, reminding him of all the times he had caused her to cry. She’s probably looking down on him now crying, admonishing him for taking so long, too long. “I’m sorry, it took me so long to tell you. I wish I had told you sooner. I wish you had known how I felt. You are my heart Molly Hooper.”

He’s not sure how much longer he sat with her, just needing to be close to her but he knew it was time. “I need to go now but you’ll always be in my heart, promise.” Gently he kissed her lips. Giving her one last look, he whispered, “Goodbye Molly Hooper.” He let out a breath, straightened his shoulders, and walked straight past his brother into the hallway. Once through the morgue doors, he braced himself against the wall waiting for his brother.

He didn’t see Mycroft slowly walk towards her, nor see the emotion he showed as he said his final goodbyes. Stoically, he pressed himself into the wall as if Bart’s needed him to shore up the wall or something. But the truth was, he needed Bart’s to shore him up. This place had always felt like home to him, a place he could be comfortable. Of course, as he’s discovered these last few months, Bart’s was no home without Molly in it. He doubted he would ever come here again after today.

When Mycroft passed through the doors, the two brothers walked in silence through the corridors to the black car waiting outside. Sherlock’s eyes were fixed forward, with his hands steepled under his chin, a sure sign he was in his mind palace. Mycroft chose to look out the window at the passing scenery. He rarely did that, but he thought it would please Molly to know he took an interest beyond his mobile.

After ten minutes of the car waiting in front of Baker Street, Mycroft gently touched his sleeve. This jolted Sherlock from his mind palace, and he gave a sharp look at his brother. “I’m sorry Sherlock, but the local constables are only going to let us sit here so long before they will eventually force even I to move along.”

Sherlock looked at his surroundings, seemingly surprised that they were sitting in front of his flat. “Yes, sorry.” He turned to open the door, then turned back towards his brother. “What will happen now? To her?” His voice thick.

“She asked to be cremated. They will take her from Bart’s to complete that task.” Mycroft tried to sound detached but the tremor in it gave him away.

Sherlock nodded. “And then?”

Mycroft’s sad eyes were almost more than Sherlock could bear. “She didn’t specify. I thought I might release them over the ocean.”

Sherlock sat there in silence. It was several minutes before he asked, “May I ….may I keep her?”

If not for his decades of training, Mycroft would have had a very emotional reaction to his brother’s request. Instead, he nodded slightly and replied, “Of course.”

Sherlock nodded back and leaped from the car. Immediately Mycroft directed his driver to the Diogenes Club. He needed the silence and solace to insulant him from all of the emotions of this past week.

**~~~~~~**

He was sitting in his chair, suit jacket replaced by his dressing gown reliving every interaction he’d ever had with Molly. He didn’t want to forget. He needed to be certain they were preserved in his mind palace. Finally, it was the chime of his mobile that pulled him out of his thoughts. Looking at it, he realized that Mycroft had sent him several texts over the last hour, some with attachments. When he saw the attached pictures, he bolted out of his chair. Mycroft had sent him pictures of several urns. He was trying to decide which one would be best for Molly. The whole idea of Molly being stuck inside a hideous container filled him with rage. He fired off a text to his brother. “None of those will do.” Then, a few minutes later. “Leave it to me.”

He spent the next several hours researching crematory urns on the Internet. Molly was unique, and no ordinary urn would do. No, it needed to reflect the person she was. Molly was kind, beautiful, loyal, and she loved with her whole heart, even when it hurt. His eyes were getting blurry from clicking on screen after screen. His finger froze when he saw it, because he knew without a doubt it was her. Oh, he knew she’d never have chosen it out for herself. She never saw herself that way, but he did. This was perfect. He fired off a text to his brother with the image and the website link. And despite the late hour, his brother answered. “Yes, that’s the one.”

**~~~~~~**

It gave him some peace, and he was able to amble to his bed and get a few hours sleep. When he woke, he heard Mrs. Hudson fussing in the front rooms. Pushing himself up, he rose out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown on the way to the loo. When he came into the kitchen, he could see the tea sitting on the tray with fresh scones. Mrs. Hudson was sitting in John’s chair sipping on her tea. “Morning Hudders.” He mumbled as he made his tea and stacked two scones on his plate. 

“Morning Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson responded, keeping a close eye on him as he took his place in his chair. He looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes, and a tincture of red at the edges. She was worried about him. They all were. This could be just the excuse for him to go back to the drugs. They sat in companionable silence processing the day and all that had transpired as family often does.

She was torn from her thoughts when he said, “I saw her last night.” He paused. “I told her I loved her. ……..and goodbye.” His eyes were deep with sadness, and he seemed to be asking what he should do next. What was the next step?

“Oh Sherlock, that must have been difficult.” He nodded then avoided her gaze. “I know that had to be hard but it’s important that you got to tell her.”

“Too late.” He growled, still hating himself.

“She heard you Sherlock.” When he looked back at her, she continued. “Molly had a heart far bigger than could be contained by a mortal life. She’s still with you, and always will be.”

He choked at her words, urgently trying to rid himself of his teacup. Leaning forward, he placed his head in his hands trying, so desperately to feel even a tiny bit worthy of the love that Molly had given him. How could he have been so stupid to have thrown it away?

She let him be for a few minutes but didn’t want him to get stuck in his head too long. Finally, she asked, “Do you know when the service is?”

Slowly he raised his head far enough to look at her. “Service?” He asked, confused.

“You know a funeral service? A memorial? Who’s taking care of arrangements? Does she have any relatives?” Mrs. Hudson continued on.

He shook his head. “No, her father was her last relative, no siblings, her mother died when she was young. There might be a distant aunt that Molly had mentioned once, not sure.”

“Oh, what a shame. So, who’s taking care of arrangements?”

“Mycroft.”

Her eyebrows rose to the top of her head, “Mycroft? How? Why is he involved?” It was obvious she didn’t like the idea of Mycroft having anything to do with Molly.

His head felt heavy in his hands as he again stared at the floor. “I let her down Hudders. He’s all she had. He took care of her. It should have been me, but I’d been an idiot. I pushed her away and when she needed me the most; I wasn’t there for her.” He was crying again. The grief seemed to just overwhelm him, and he couldn’t stop the emotions; he didn’t want to. When he denied what he felt before, it cost him Molly, He wouldn’t deny his love for her any longer.

He heard her shuffling as she came to sit on the arm of his chair. When she rested her hand on his back, he immediately turned to wrap his arms around her middle. He took comfort from her rubbing his back and running her fingers through his hair. Everything felt so wrong. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this out of control before, and then he remembered….. _Victor_. He’d felt such a sense of loss when Victor was taken from him. The guilt of knowing it was partially his fault, he had been too slow, had ate at him until he had to hide away from the pain. He buried the pain and erased who Victor was to him, pretending he was a dog for three decades. He wouldn’t do that to Molly. She deserved better than to be regulated to a room in his mind palace and forgotten in his real life.

“I don’t want to forget her. I don’t want her forgotten.” He raised his head to look at her with pleading eyes. “What do we do?”

She brushed his hair out of his eyes, then took the corner of her pinny and wiped his cheeks. “Sherlock we are not going to forget her. You are not going to forget her. She’s too important to our lives. We can do something special for her though.” He sat up, giving her his attention. “We should have a memorial for her. It could be something small, maybe have it here or at Bart’s chapel. Give everyone who knew her a chance to say goodbye and remember her.

“Yes, yes that would be good.” This seemed to give him purpose. After a moment, he looked at her again, “How do we do that?” He’d never organized a memorial before. He’d only attended two in his life: Mary’s and his own, and then only in the peripheral. 

“Maybe, we should ask John to join us, and I suppose Mycroft if he’s organizing things.” She said that last part as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. 

He sat up, regain his composure. “Yes, John would be helpful, but do you think it’s too much for him? It hasn’t been that long since Mary.” Sherlock worried.

Mrs. Hudson patted him on the shoulder. “It’s not been long, your right but I think he’d still want to be here, for Molly, …..and you.”

She lets him have his thoughts for a while before saying, “Why don’t you go hop in the shower, and get yourself cleaned up. I’ll text John to see if he can come over.” He nodded agreement. “I can even text Mycroft if you want.” Although it was clear by her tone, she’d really rather not.

“Let’s hold off on Mycroft for now until we know what we are going to do.” She nodded, a bit relieved. “And, don’t worry. I can deal with Mycroft.” He gave her a weak smile, kissed her cheek and headed to the loo.

She gave a sigh of relief and shifted into Sherlock’s seat. As she heard the water running in the shower, she said a prayer of thanks that he hadn’t turned to drugs, and that he hadn’t fallen into that dark place yet. She knew it could still happen, but hopefully not on her watch. After texting John, she cleaned up their breakfast and did a general tidying of the front rooms.

**~~~~~~**

After his shower and getting dressed, Sherlock popped down to Speedy’s for some sandwiches. John would be taking time out from his clinic hours so he knew John would appreciate a spot of lunch. John was waiting in his chair reading the morning’s newspaper when Sherlock sauntered back into the flat.

Seeing him flint by to the kitchen, he closed the newspaper and joined him. “Hey there Sherlock. I thought maybe you had forgotten I was coming over.” Eyeing his movements around the kitchen.

Sherlock gave him an exasperated look. “Why would I forget you were coming? Mrs. Hudson just asked you to come this morning.” Sherlock had put the kettle on to boil and had brought out three cups for tea. He then pulled three plates from the cupboard that he placed on the table.

At that moment they heard a “Woo Hoo” coming from the stairs announcing Mrs. Hudson. “Oh, hello there John.” She gushed as she gave her former tenant a squeeze around the middle. “How’s my goddaughter?”

“She’s doing well.” He quickly responded. Turning his back on Sherlock he asked through a series of movements with his eyes and eyebrows how Sherlock was doing. She patted his hand giving him a level of assurance.

When they turned around, Sherlock had placed their sandwiches on the plates and was bringing the tea to the table. John stared in astonishment. “Um, Sherlock you doing alright?”

“Yes, haven’t you already ascertained that answer from Mrs. Hudson.” He gave him a knowing stare.

“I think your domestic display is alarming him, Sherlock.” She observed. John nodded in agreement.

He looked over the table of sandwiches and tea and wondered what all the fuss was about. Then it occurred to him, this wasn’t something he would normally do. This was something _Molly_ would normally do. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, it seemed the thing Molly would have thought of.” Quickly, he finished putting the cream, sugar, and large bag of Quavers on the table before indicating everyone should have a seat.

Neither of them said anything as they took their seats. As they began their lunch, they each relived silent memories of the kind things that Molly had done for them. Molly checking on Mrs. Hudson when Sherlock was out of town on cases, having tea with her, bringing her soup when she was under the weather. John didn’t know where he or Rosie would have been if Molly hadn’t step in when Mary had been killed. He had been in no shape to look after himself, let alone his child. She literally saved both of them. Sherlock’s mind had drifted off to the many experiments they had performed at this table. Yes, they worked well together in the lab but here, in his home, that was special.

John broke the silence, “So Mrs. Hudson said that you wanted to organize a memorial for Molly?” He asked then kept his eyes on Sherlock wanting to gauge his reaction. He was just as concerned as Mrs. Hudson that Molly’s death might be the reason they lost him to drugs, this time probably for good.

Sitting his tea mug down, Sherlock looked over to him solemnly. “Yes John, Mrs. Hudson and I thought it would be a way we could honor her, and ….remember her.”

“Yes, it would. What about her family?” He inquired sure that Sherlock was going to overstep his place.

Shaking his head, he said, “She has no living family as far as we know. There may be a distant great aunt but I’m not even sure she is still living. Molly has no one but us to remember her.” The look he gave John was resolute in his determination to do this for her.

John gave a slight nod, “I hadn’t realized. So how should we go about this? Will there be a funeral? A visitation time?”

Again, Sherlock shook his head no. “She was to be cremated.” He swallowed past a large lump in his throat. “There is no need for a funeral.” He looked over to Mrs. Hudson asking for her help as this was making him more emotional than he wanted John to see.

“So, Sherlock and I were talking last night, and we thought we should organize something for Molly. We were probably the closest she had to family.”  
  


John nodded. “Yes, that …… I think she’d like that.” He tried to keep his voice steady, still having a hard time believing that Molly Hooper was gone.

They spent the next several hours making plans, putting together a guest list, and calling others for their input. Mike Stamford was invaluable as to who of her colleagues they should invite. Talking with Meena was an emotional experience for Sherlock. But when he admitted to her best friend that he had been wrong and that he truly loved her, she relented. She promised to bring some of Molly things to the memorial as well as contact Molly’s close friends. John and Sherlock argued as to whether the memorial should be held at Baker Street or the Bart’s Chapel. John felt that Bart’s was larger and had been a large part of her life as it’s lead pathologist. Sherlock won him over by reminding him that Molly was more than a pathologist. That her entire life should be celebrated. The depth of his sentiment had John relenting his position.

Mrs. Hudson began to fuss about the state of the flat and how she wasn’t sure she could get it cleaned in time. He assured her it would not be a problem, and after several texts had set up a cleaning service to come the next day. Although taken back, she agreed that might be best. Her hip wasn’t getting any younger.

With their plans made, Mrs. Hudson said her goodbyes, and headed back to her flat. John dithered around, not sure if he should leave him alone or not. Finally, Sherlock looked his way. “Go back to the clinic, John. I’ll be alright.”

Not taking his eyes off of him, he asked, “Are you sure about that?”

Sherlock sitting in his chair, with his hands steepled below his lips looked over to his friend. “It is what it is, John.”

Swallowing hard, John remembered that conversation they had had after Mary, after he nearly killed himself trying to save him. And he knew there were no more words, “It is what it is.” He repeated before waving off and heading out of the flat.

**~~~~~~**

Informing Mycroft was tedious but necessary. He found it difficult trying to contain the anger he felt having to go through Mycroft for Molly. It seemed so wrong. He knew why. It should have been him. He should have been there for her, ………..and he wasn’t. He would never forgive himself for that. It is a regret he will take to the grave.

Mycroft agreed to have Molly’s remains there by the morning of the memorial. He offered a bouquet of flowers as well, but Sherlock insisted Molly would just want a vaseful of daisies. He agreed to that concession.

The next day, he worked in tandem with the cleaners to prepare his flat for the service. After explaining to the cleaning crew the need for a thorough cleaning, they worked diligently to make it presentable. Sherlock hid things away in his desk drawers and tossed a number of items into the bottom of his wardrobe. When they were finished, even Mrs. Hudson was pleased.

Later that evening he was surprised when Molly’s best friend Meena knocked on his door. It was obvious she too was taking Molly’s death hard. He offered her tea, and over that they talked about their friend and how much they would miss her. Meena had also brought over some items she felt represented Molly and thought they could be set out for the memorial. Sherlock agreed despite not wanting to look at them yet.

**~~~~~~**

His sleep had been fitful for days, but the night before her memorial he was barely able to get any rest. His heart was heavy with grief and regret. The sun was barely over the horizon when he and Mrs. Hudson took tea in silence in his front rooms. They were both remembering in their quiet contemplation and didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.

After Mrs. Hudson left for her own flat, Sherlock thought he should look through the bag that Meena had left with him to determine what to sit out. On top was the fuzzy yellow blanket that her Gran had knitted for her when she was a child. He remembers how upset she was when he walked around her flat with it on (and nothing else) once when he used her place for a bolthole. The memory of her crimson cheeks made him smile. 

Next was a collar, Toby’s collar. She had been devastated when she had to put her beloved cat down, and he only made it worse by his call from Sherringford. He shook his head trying to dispel the sad look on her face that day as he begged her to say those words to him.

Then there were a few framed photographs. The first of her mother, father, and Molly as a baby. She’d always cherished that photo. Her mother had died when she was only eight years old. It must have been hard for her father to raise a young daughter when his own heart was breaking. Molly had said several times how her father had worshipped her mother. Perhaps that was what Molly was hoping for in a relationship. He felt the heart in his chest tighten further knowing how much he had failed her.

Another photo was from John and Mary’s wedding. It was the four of them, in one of the staged photos outside the church. She looked so happy in her bright yellow dress and big bow. He let his fingers trace over her as he remembered how alive she was. Taking another look at the photo, it struck him how both the women in it were now gone. Both John’s and his partners were gone. The guilt of knowing he was responsible for both of them nearly crushing him.

The last framed photograph made his knees go weak. It was a picture of just him and Molly, also taken at the wedding. He didn’t remember the photographer taking it but then he had been quite stealth, hadn’t he? It was a candid shot, capturing them both in a happy moment. He’s not sure what they were discussing but they both seem to take amusement from it. He tried to push back the tears as a faint smile shown on his face.

Leaving the bag behind, he made his way to his bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he again looked down at the couple who never were who always should have been. In the privacy of his bedroom, he could not stop the tears as they flowed grieving for Molly’s death, for the life they never had together, and for the woman he would never see again.

He's not sure how long he stayed there in his grief, but it was Mrs. Hudson in the distant that pulled him out. “Woo hoo, Sherlock? Are you up? John will be here soon.”

Brushing his cheeks, he swallowed hard trying his best to find his voice. “I was just getting into the shower.” He breathed in and out, trying to find calm.

“Alright, I expect you to be ready in the next half hour, young man!” She warned.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson.”

He took one last look at him and Molly so happy, reminding him of what could have been. Carefully, he placed the framed picture on his nightstand. This one felt too personal for everyone else’s eyes.

**~~~~~~**

Shortly after emerging from his bedroom, dressed in his black suit and aubergine shirt, Anthea arrived with a wooden box. The sight of it nearly caused his knees to buckle knowing that inside was all that remained of Molly Hooper. Anthea steadied him, then assisted in setting up a proper memorial for her. Sherlock’s desk had been cleared by the cleaning crew, so they laid her gran’s blanket on it first in sort of a diagonal so that it came down in a V at the front. Molly’s ashes were set in the center, the vase of daisies were set behind, around Molly they set up the photos and Toby’s collar. 

When Mrs. Hudson came up, she added some votive candles in amongst the items. Anthea offered to help her bring up the food as Mrs. Hudson insisted on feeding everybody up. Sherlock was left to set up tablecloths and silverware on his kitchen table. From across the room he had been staring at the memorial when the sounds of Mrs. Hudson and Anthea joined by John caught his attention. As they were placing the platters on the table, Sherlock was tackled by his goddaughter, Rosie.

Immediately he picked her up and walked to his chair. “So, how’s my Rosie been?” He asked as he tickled her belly. The happy sounds of a toddler’s laugh brought a little life back to his dead heart. When he looked across the room; he saw John watching them. The understanding look on his face spoke volumes. He knew the power of a child’s laugh to heal a broken heart.

Rosie held tight to her stuffed cat. He remembers when Molly bought it for her. It was shortly after the christening; they’d passed a shop that she insisted they had to go in. When she saw the tabby cat, that looked so much like Toby, she had to have it. He kept his eyes on Rosie as she had her cat give him kisses all over his face. “Is Toby giving me kisses?” He teased her.

“Tob’” She imitated. Then she brought the cat to her face and gave it kisses.

He smiled at her. “Auntie Molly gave you that didn’t she?”

At Molly’s name she started to look around the room for her, “Mowy”.

Realizing he made her miss Molly stabbed his heart. “Sorry Rosie, Auntie Molly can’t be here today.”

“Here?” She inquired.

“No, not today.” He told her, pulling her into his arms a bit tighter. 

At that moment, their attention was diverted to Greg Lestrade who had just entered the flat. After allowing Mrs. Hudson to fuss over him for a moment, and giving Anthea a strange look trying to determine why she was here; he came over to Sherlock. John swiftly came in to take Rosie to the other side of the room where Mrs. Hudson was seated on the sofa.

“So, how you holding up Sherlock?” He asked as he dropped into John’s chair.

Sherlock pierced him with a long look before answering, “Fine.”

“Yeah, just what I thought.” He nodded his head up and down. “Um, I brought something. I don’t know. It seems silly now but…” He pulled a long multi-colored scarf out of his pocket.

Sherlock sat up, looking at it more closely. “That’s Molly’s scarf.”

“Yeah, it is. She left it in my car the night of her goodbye party. I had given her a ride home. I never had a chance to give it back to her.”

Sherlock’s hand reached out to touch it, seeing it on her, thinking how ridiculous it looked but it was so Molly. Silently, he took it from the inspector. Walking over to her memorial, he wound it around the wooden box and the votive candles. Greg came up behind him resting his hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, it seems right.”

Greg was then preoccupied with the ale that John had pressed into his hand. Meena arrived with an 8x10 framed photo of Molly. She was laughing in it, and she looked so happy. They placed it between the wooden box and the daisies. Stamford brought her doctor credentials. He knew how hard she had worked to be the youngest pathologist at Bart’s. He also laid her lab coat with Dr. M. Hooper embroidered on it over the desk chair. Many other tokens of Molly’s life were brought by her eclectic group of friends, adding them to her memorial.

They hadn’t planned any formal service, so everyone told stories of their time with Molly. Sherlock remained in his chair listening to the life of Molly Hooper as told by those who knew her. Some he already knew but there were quite a few, particularly those told by Meena that he had never heard. There was a whole part of Molly’s life that he never knew. He did not contribute any of his own; they were his to keep. 

As the crowd started to thin out, Mycroft slipped in. Pulling John to the side, he inquired as to how his brother was faring. John assured him he was doing as well as he could be. On his way to his brother’s side, Mrs. Hudson pushed a plate of apple tart into his hand. Who was he to refuse?

**~~~~~~**

After everyone has left, he picks up the wooden box from its place on his desk. He reflects on the day, knowing Molly would have approved. She would have enjoyed having everyone together, just not her being the center of attention. No, that she would have hated. A small smile graced his face as he thought of how shy she could be. Molly, his Molly she was shy, but she was also fierce, intelligent, and possessed the biggest heart of anyone he’d ever know.

Sitting in his chair, he opens the wooden box. Inside on a bed of silk, lies a crystal blue heart that contains the ashes of Molly Hooper. Gently he takes it from its resting place and holds her within his hands, feeling her love for him still radiating from her. Carefully, he places the wooden box on his side table, then stands. He sits the crystal heart on his mantle next to Billy, her first present to him. His fingers trace over the smooth surface and he is calmed by her presence. She would have liked this, to be next to him always without being the center of attention.

**Author's Note:**

> This life change has affected me more than I had expected. I've barely been on AO3 since her passing, only recently have I been reading again. I know I left many readers in the lurch with Trapped in my Mind. I promise I will return to it.  
> Also does anyone know how to get a picture into the story. I have two that I feel would impact the piece but I could not get them to work. Thank you.


End file.
